Daddy Fucked My Ass At The Motorcycle Rally

The rally was a thunderstorm of Harley engines and leather, hundreds of bikers converging on a small coastal town. My father Arthur had ridden motorcycles his whole life, and this was his world. I climbed onto the back of his bike, arms wrapped around his waist, and we roared down the highway. The bar at the rally was loud and smoky, but he found a quiet corner. Between the pool tables and the jukebox, I learned that some rides are just the beginning.